The differnece between guilt and shame
by Eitten
Summary: Story of Dethklok, beginning to end Skwisgaar's pov. *This is still and experiment, I would really like to hear what readers think so please review if you read*


**A/N Hey, this an experiment piece that I have been working with for almost a year, I wanted to see how other readers respond to it before I continue this. So please review if you read this. Thanks**

Skwis POV

Ch. 1

There is a time in your life when you dream of something bigger, better, and not covered in piss and reeking of cheap beer and 3 day caked on sweat, that would be my life. Its not terrible, its just not great. No scratch that. It IS that fucking terrible but I am just so used to it, any thing else would be too luxurious, which is something I cannot afford. Not on my zero salary.

When you have this epiphany that your life is not they way you envisioned it, Camus says that is when the suicidal thoughts begin to posses your mind. But he did not state that a greater man would look at how far he has come and strive to go farther even if he left 30 failed bands behind. Would I consider myself a greater man? Fuck yeah, that's a stupid question. I am the greatest thing to ever happen to me. I just need to work harder to have the life that I wish to have, and stop wasting my talent on pathetic bands. Sadly sprawled out on my dirty sweat and blood stained pull out couch is not getting me very far. And that half a joint isn't getting me very high either, in fact I keep becoming lower.

That's what bad weed does. Gets you low along with reminding you of shit you wanted to forget from your high school days. What did philosophy help me with, other than give me a reason to stay away from home a little longer. OH! My obsession with my mother... wait that's psychology.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuck" I groan. I try to turn over and sleep but the bad weed is churning my empty stomach. When was the last time I ate? One no maybe two days? I was never good at remembering when to eat. That is a job for mom's.

"Shit. What day is it?!" I scramble off the bed to reach for the cheap cell phone that connects me to the outside world. Once I retrieve the phone I attempt to press the blurry numbers. 3 mistakes until I get it right, fucking numbers.

"Hallå" A voice answers on the third ring.

"Hi. Its me, mom" My stomach begins to churn once again. Chances are my mom is not alone, which should not bother me as much as it does. But... GOD!

"Skwisgaar? Why are you calling me now?" She is upset. At what, I am not sure. Maybe because I only really call her once a month instead of the once a week I promised once I left, or maybe I ruined a really good date or maybe a family member died and I was to busy being trying to be famous I was out of contact.

"It is Mother's Day. Why wouldn't I call."

And there it is. The blood curdling laugh I dread. What ever she laughs at still ceases to be funny to me. The crappy cell phone hangs loosely in my hand as I wait for her to finish.

"Mother's day was two weeks ago, Skwisgaar." Her voice has a tinge of sadness. I ignore it, she wouldn't want me to ask about it, it would make her seem weak. Its the way the Skwigelf family is.

"I have been busy." I can practically hear her eyes roll.

"How is living out your rock and roll dream? It must be very exciting if you are to busy to call your mother." She is mocking me, and she knows I know it. I shift slightly on the stained carpet.

"How have you been?" I try to change the subject. I feel her practically watching me in my crappy apartment with my drugged room-mates. I feel she knows that I am worthless and yet I still call her, obediently like a good son I will never be. I never ask for anything, never food, money or even love. I just need to hear a familiar voice in this ever changing world. I don't love her, no, I love her as much as she has loved me. Leaving me all alone and choosing men over the only one that was willing to be by her side. I think there was a time where I did love her, and she was still beautiful to me. The day that changed was day I found out the guitar to be so much more beautiful that I saw my own mother as ugly.

"I have been good. How are you? Are you eating well?" This is what hurts me. The slight concern. Sometimes I imagine that she still wants to be my mother, and I cling to that slight hope and it drives me to call her once a month just to hear her voice. Like a child when the parents go out for the night and he can't sleep until they hear them trying to quietly enter the house, and once he hears the familiar "_Shhhhhh"_ he is out cold, because he knows he is safe. I am a child constantly clinging to the idea that I am safe, though I have long left the safety of my home.

"Yes, mom. I am eating fine" I lie. I hate the concern. I don't want it, because it leads to pity. I don't need anyone's pity, not even my mother's.

"I just worry sometimes" I have hurt her. It is not the first time and it definitely will not be the last. For a second I feel guilty but, the second is fleeting, and I stone myself from any emotion.

"Well, don't. There is no reason" I say, ice comes flying out with my voice and she freezes as well. It is a defence mechanism for a damaged family, warmth makes a child soft and open to pain but when that child is raised as cold as the snow they lived in, hurt can just get the fuck out.

"Well when a mother's child decides to run away and play rock star with no money or a real place to live, the mother worries." She argues

"Well you weren't much of a mother if the child had to run away, MOM!" I argue back and I do it with a vengeance. I want her to hurt, because I don't want her to care.

We are both silent for a few moments, and her breathing is slowing, she is trying to calm herself down. She is strong, and she does not need to cry over me. My crappy phone beeps signalling that my battery is dying.

"Look, mom I have to go." I let the silence linger so she can tell me how useless I am,or hurt me back.

"I love you, Skwisgaar"But that wont come. I can never get used to it when she says that she loves me. It makes me sick and nauseous and … guilty. I hang up as fast I can and heave into the closest bin. Whatever I didn't eat is now in the trash can.

_I love you, Skwisgaar_

_ I love you, Skwisgaar_

I am not a good son, I am definitely not a good person, and why should I be? No one was ever good to me. Sadly I was thrown into the adult world at a very young age and when you aren't ready for it, the world beats you up and breaks you down until you are what is only decent to look at, but vile and disgusting gunk flows through your body and clogs up your mind. Its that gunk that makes you cold and tired. Women love a cold aloof man because they think they can save him from himself. A thing to nurture.

I walk over to the sleeping form in my pull out bed.

"Hey.. get up." I kick the bed causing it to shake. The nameless girl in my bed is still fast asleep and after the phone call with my mom I honestly don't give a shit how she wakes up. I kick it again, this time harder.

"Hmmmm. What the fuck?" she isn't happy about her wake up call. She slowly sits up and faces me, with a look so angry it could peel off paint. She really isn't that unattractive, or a bad fuck, I just don't like to keep fucks around for more than one night. They get clingy and God forbid you have sex with them again. They start claiming shit about relationships and love. I have only told one woman I loved her and it makes me vomit to hear her say it to me.

"You got to go" I search in my pockets for a pack of cigarettes as I ignore her annoyed glares. Yeah, yeah hate me all that you want, but it was you who has played this game and sadly you lost, just like all the others, you are not special.

"Are you serious?" She is pissed.

This time I do make eye contact. I show her how cold I am by looking her right in the fucking eye and telling her to fuck off.

"Yeah. I kinda am." With the flick of a lighter the end of my cigarette blazes and the toxins in the stick join the putrid gunk of my insides, known as my personality. The same personality that charmed this woman in my bed, its not my fault she wasn't the one to stay and hear my problems or little whispers of I love you.

_I love you, Skwisgaar_

I swallow the thick acidic bile that threatens to escape my mouth.

"You are pathetic" my one night stand murmurs at me as she gets dressed. She still hasn't left?

"Funny. Last night you compared me to a God." I don't miss a beat,I never do. What comes into my mind spews out my mouth like a ice cold shower. I take a glance at her and smirk. Her cheeks have reddened along with her now shocked face. I have gotten the better of her. She is mad now, she dresses more hurriedly and even forgets to button a few things as she grabs her purse and races out the door.

I sigh and sit back on my bed, the cigarette still slowly burns between my fingers. Right now I am utterly fascinated by it. I don't take a drag, I just let it burn. The ash constantly growing longer and longer until it falls to the floor. I scratch my bare chest and lay down with my legs hanging off. I like to look at the ceiling and think sometimes, or just to stare at the patterns of cracks on the ceiling. My place isn't great.. I know this, But right now its my home until I get out of Sweden. Maybe my current band will actually make a name for itself, then again maybe not.

Gognog Mug Alugdug is pretty much crap. I should have guessed by the name that they were nothing but jokers who would fuck up practice by getting too high or too drunk. They could be decent if they practised or played their instruments. Practices were spent either drinking, or arguing about drinking.

The growl of my stomach interrupts me from my internal rant.

"Do I have food?" I ask the air. I wait for an answer I know wont come so I get up to check for myself. Fridge open, chest scratch, and yawn. My routine whenever I check for food, like a spell in hopes my fridge will magically become filled.

It never works.

Beer, beer, beer, vodka, cream (possibly expired), bread, butter, beer, beer and whatever the fuck that is. As much as I would love to go for a liquid diet, I need to get something solid in my gut, so bread and butter it is.

I pluck out the fuzzy mold from parts butter and attempt the same thing on the bread. After the bread has been buttered I pop my breakfast in my mouth and I plop down with the only love of my life, my guitar. My Explorer is getting old and some of the frets don't work but she is still beautiful to me and even I can make her sing still. Once I pick her up I can't put her back down. My fingers glide over the strings making a harmonious song as I practice the only song that we were able to write. It isn't bad, it just isn't heavy enough. Kind of in between rock and metal.  
_Dadada dadadadadadadaadadadad dadaad poink! _Dead fret. _Dadadadad Dadadadadadadadadada ddadaddaaaaa dadadadddad Poink! _ Dead fret. _Dadadadada ada dadadad dadadda daddad POINK! POINK! POINK! _

"AAARGH! Fuck!" I groan. I place my guitar to the side. The fret is completely dead, and there is no way I could play around it. I stand and walk over to my my secret soup can bank I store in my empty laundry detergent box. It was supposed to be a rainy day jar, for if I needed some kind of expensive surgery and I was gong to die, but this is just as important. I dump out the contents and dig through them.

"1 krona. 5 krona. 5 Krona. 5 Krona. Hey! 50 Krona. 10 krona. 1 krona. 1 krona. 1 krona..."

I count and recount and recount again. Over the few years of storing all my lose change and a few larger bills I have only been able to save up 583 krona... I throw the empty can on the ground.

I need at least, fucking 12,500 more. I lay face down in my pile of coins and bills. In the music videos, if you do this you seem like a rich ass hole with money falling from the ceiling. I look up in hope, but no money, just cracks. Like the cracks that run over my whole body now that my guitar is dying. It would cost a little more to fix the fret, but what happens if another one goes out, then another, then another!

My face reconnects with the money. And how am I going to raise money if I can't play the guitar. My phone suddenly glows and attracts my eyesight... I guess it hasn't died yet. I look at the caller id and its my mom. Again. What on earth could she be calling about when I am so desperate...

"Halla," Aggravation can be heard in my voice.

"Skwisgaar, its mama.."

"Yes, mom. I know. What do you want?"

"You hung up in a hurry, I wasn't able to tell you about an offer of money."

"I don't want it." Not that I don't need it.. I just don't want to use money she probably had to do dirty deeds for.

"But I am not offering it personally. My new boyfriend wants to invest in your band."

I pause. I was aggravated before, now I am angry. Bitter bile rises up to my throat and I threaten to vomit all over my pile of money. I know exactly what an investment he wants to make. I have heard of similar "Investments" and all of them ended with me trying to kill the fat bastard on top of my mother and digging a hole of debt. They usually demand all the money back once you try to choke them with their own belt.

I grind my teeth ready calming so I can reject the offer calmly. I hear giggles, and a shush.. that breaks me. I sit up from my scattered money and glare at the wall. I imagine it is some fat man with a huge fat neck and the musk of dirty sweat.

"Why the fuck would I want money, so someone can buy you as a whore!?" I hiss.

"The only fucking Investment I will ever accept from someone YOU know is if they don't have a fucking cock!"

I barely hear her angry voice before I throw my cell phone against the wall. A distinct crack is heard before I stand up and rush to the toilet and let go of my fuzzy toast and fuzzy butter.

"Now, I am hungry again" I whisper into the bowl. I gaze longingly at my only source of funds on my bed. I could get a really good meal out of some of that.

I walk up to my bed and scrape it all back in the can. I stare at my guitar, my only true love who hasn't turned their back at me. I wouldn't mind free loading off a few band mates if it means I can play again. I contemplate being lonely for the whole day or see the ass holes I call my band mates. I choose the greater of the evils and head off into the shower so I can smell somewhat decent.

The thing interesting about showers is before you hop in, you are annoyed as fuck because you have to wash your hair and body which is just so fucking tedious. But once you are in you don't want to leave and then what started out as a 5 minute shower has suddenly turned into an hour shower and you wonder where the time went and then you have to question yourself why were you thinking about showers while you were in one. And then you realize that you really don't care as long as the water stays on. And like a curse the water runs cold, and you jump out forgoing a towel just to be out of that icy spray. At least I smell clean.

I dress as casually as I can, which is basically anything I find on the floor that isn't too stained and does not smell like the dead. I settle for a pair of rip jeans with a ketchup stain, or it could be blood, not exactly sure. I pull a plain black t-shirt over my head and try to scrape off and crusty stains that litter it. Good enough. I grab a pair of sneakers and throw them on while I let my hair dry out.

I walk to a near by mirror and check myself out and decide what hair style I could go with. I feel a little feminine but if anyone ever pointed it out I would clock them in their fucking Jaw. I play with a few strands before I decide down it is. It is not like I could do much with it anyway. It only come down a little pass my chin. If I put it in a pony tail I would look like a huge dildo. I giggle at myself. I thought living on my own would have matured me a tiny bit but being only 19, the word dildo and dootie are still perfectly humorous.

I make a quick attempt on looking nice and grab a clean denim jacket. Its not extremely cold, but it is cold enough, especially when your hair is wet. I yawn as I exit my cheap little studio flat. I walk down stair humming a little tune, the origin is lost on me but I know its pretty old.

Old worn sneakers hit the pavement and the short journey to my band-mate's dirty old flat begins. There is always a weird sense of discovery as I walk down the dirty street. I swear I have walked it a million times and there is always something new to look at. _Was that homeless guy there yesterday? Wow that guy playing the guitar on the corner sure is crap today. Hmmm, Have I slept with her yet? Coffee sure sounds nice. Did the wind just pick up?_

New questions that I have asked myself a million times just pass through my mind, and they always seem new. I smile at this little revelation. It gives life a little bit of excitement. This short walk makes me realize, fuck I am free. And then I arrive at my destination... and dread and nausea wash over me like a bad cologne.

Markus, the band leader lives on the of the most disgusting, sad abandoned high-rise flats to ever exist in Stockholm. Honestly I know my place is pretty disgusting, but at least I have running water and plumbing. I walk into the lobby and choose the stairs over the lift. Last time I choose the lift I was stuck in there for three hours. Not one of our best band practices.

As I enter his hallway I hear something I never expect to hear when I visit Markus. Music. Actual music, from actual people practising. I an ecstatic. Finally we are getting our shit together!

I burst into the flat and see my band-mates jamming. I pick up a spare guitar from across the room and join in.

There is always something amazing about jamming with a band. When its a good band you all synchronise and become one. Like a huge musical god looking over onlookers. You are a part of that musical god, a body part. It could be an arm or it could be the heart, but you are a part of something you can't be by yourself. And when your solo begins, your part shines brighter than all the others. You become a demi god, even for a brief moment, you are bigger than the god. But you always must return to your god and become the arm or the what ever the fuck you are.

My solo comes to a halt and we play the last of the song. Everyone is breathing hard with excitement and adrenaline. I walk over to a pink beaten up couch and plop down on it. If I was hungry before I sure am starving now.

"That was awesome!" Markus screams in the microphone. My other band mates cheer in agreement. My stomach decides to answer for me.

"Nice..."Markus smirks in my direction, and I try to hide my embarrasment. He throws a packet of butter cookies inn my direction. With no shame I devour them like a hungry beast.

"Nice of you to join us. We tried calling you, no answer" Tomas, another band-mate, leans on his bass and tries to blow his hair out of his eyes.

"I threw it against a wall" I say throw a mouthful of cookies. Tomas nods his head like it is the most reasonable thing to have happened.

Once the cookies have been devour and I am only slightly full, I replace the guitar in my hands. It is Markus's, and it looks expensive. Its a warlock and could go for a pretty krona, one I don't have. He only lets me play it when we have practice, which is rarely. The frets aren't dead and the strings aren't rusted. I am having an affair with it, but my guitar wont mind. She knows I need a better one to make it out in this world of music. I am way too good to be kept from the adoring public.

"What was with your solo. You kept missing some key notes." Markus has now switched from band-mate to mother. Complete with an apron and house slippers, and whatever he is cooking smells delicious.

"My guitar.. she has to many dead frets. I have to get a new one soon." My heart breaks as the words leave my mouth. It makes it too real. How many years have I had my guitar? How many things did it help me get through? How many relationships did it see me through? Well not many... I tried having a regular girlfriend like maybe once or twice. It never worked out. Wait... could one night stands count as relationships? They could, couldn't they!

How many relationships has my guitar seen me through? So numerous, I can't even use the fingers and toes of all my band mates. Nothing could hold a candle to my relationship with my guitar. She is perfect, well was perfect.

"Well you are going to have to do it soon. We have a gig in like a week." Markus places a plate of pancakes on my stomach and I dive in. They are nice and thin, perfect with the slices of ham and cheese he sets right next to me. He hands a plate to my other band-mates along with a bottle of beer.

"Yeah. Yeah. I am a little strapped for cash right now." I pop the top off my bottle and chug it down.

"Ever heard of a job?" Markus does the same, but shoves some ham in his mouth right after.

"Yeah, and I am sure everyone would love to hire a lead guitar player who hasn't gone to college and barely passed high-school." I answer sarcastically. I have had a job before a decent paying bus boy job at a small coffee house, but I was sadly fired.. It apparently doesn't look good when you sleep with your employer's daughter and refuse to call the next morning.

Worst reference. Ever.

"I am sure there is like one place. Maybe-"

"Don't say it." I cut him off. There is only one option and it is obvious. Fast food. And that's a no go. It bad enough that we barely practice but if I get a cheap, greasy, sweaty and smelly 8 hour shift job, then my goal of being a rock-star is gone.

"Its not a bad-"

"No"

"It could be-"

"No"

"Just-"

"No!"

That was the end of that. Answer is no. I will have to find a way to get cash, fast, and without getting a real job. I could be a whore. I mean I sleep with a bunch of woman now... I could get paid for it. Ooh but what if I get a stalker? Or someone desperate.. super desperate. Or someone who gets pregnant. Hmm I might have to get a paternity waiver or something. I could make this a legitimate business, with posters! what would be on them? Me, of course.. but doing what? Shirtless seems so cheesy, a nice suit would make it classy, but then it is too romantic. A nice button down silk shirt would be too suggestive to men. A v-neck is bad boyish, yeah. I could pull off the bad boy look. My poster would say "_Yeah baby.. I could be your bad boy" _ Then I-

"I could get you a job" Tomas brings me back to earth.

"doing what? Selling things in the back of your van for drug money?" Markus scoffs. Everyone know Tomas dabbles in drugs and has a few good connections with certain high up drug runners. In fact we all get our drugs from Tomas. Well, except Patrik, our drummer. He is one of those born again Christians. It still confuses me, why he hangs out with a bunch of good for nothing druggies in a nihilist rock band.

"No. Ass-hole." Tomas throws his bottle at Markus but misses by a couple of feet , where it shatters against the wall. Markus does not even flinch, which doesn't surprise me. It is actually common to throw stuff at Markus or the wall.

"What do you have in mind?" I ask. If it is at least a good idea, I may consider it.

"Well, from one of my connections. There is a rumour going around saying The Bat needs a few runners."

There is a moment of silence. Nothing but pure silence. The one where they say angels are born from, if you believe in such things. I look at Markus, Markus looks at Patrik, Patrik looks at me. We all see our sign of agreement.

Laughter, loud contagious laughter erupts from our mouths and fill the space where our playing once inhabited. I am holding my sides as tears stream from my eyes. I am sure my fellow companions are in similar states.

"The Bat! What kind of stuff have you been smoking?!" Markus asks in a fit of giggles.

"He sounds like, some kind of shitty rip off of that one super hero." Patrik adds.

"I am not going to run around dressed in tight green shorts and a cape, dumbass!"

We are all laughing at Tomas. The truth is, we all know who the "Bat" is. He is a pretty famous drug runner in our shitty part of town. Tomas claims to have hung out with him on a regular basis, which we all believe to be pretty much a lie. For one thing he doesn't even know his real name. No one does, unless you are one of his runners. And no one knows who his runners are. Its like a secret under ground gang or society. There is rumoured to be 5 to a million runners that are sworn to secrecy.

"How would you know if he was hiring or not?" Markus gets up to get more beers.

"My connections"

"Which are?" Markus has returned to his spot with a good amount of bottles. We all reach and grab for one.

"Yeah. You never tell us who these connections are." I throw back my bottle and finish off half of it with no problem.

"Its on a need to know basis."

"Whatever that means." Markus dismisses him with a wave of his hand. "Anyway. We need to go over our set-list for the gig."

"I think we should open with Monster first" Patrik suggests. I like monster. It has a nice flow that focuses on the imagery that our music creates rather than the lyrics. It is really all distorted.

"That would be cool if we did Sarah after it."

"What is that song even about?" Patrik asks.

"Some weird sex dream Skwisgaar had about having a porn star career." Markus says without missing a beat.

"Huh." That was the end of that.

By the time refinish the sun has gone down and we all debate on whether going home to sleep would be lame or be cool and go to a pub and get trashed. There was no real debate. The pub it was.

There seems to be a constant flow of money whenever alcohol is involved. The four of us were broke, and on the verge of being homeless. But when the any involvement of going out to drink and possibly get laid was involved we all manage to find a portion of money from God knows where. So here we are getting trashed on cheap domestic beer we could have easily gotten out of our refrigerator, but it always taste better when you pay more for it.

After three beers I am pretty confident I am going to score tonight. Male or Female, someone is getting my dick inside of them. There is not a ton of females here, or at least ones that seem to be interested or that I haven't fucked yet. Sitting alone at a table I see a decently attractive young guy with his long blonde hair tied into a pony tail. He has already had a good amount of liquor and is giving me bedroom eyes. I try to walk over to him without tripping over my feet. The amount of beer I had at Markus' mixed with the amount I had here has made me bit more than buzzed.

"What's lookin' good cookin'" Okay a more than a bit. What ever. He seems to have found my jumbles charming because he smirks. He has a pretty cute smile and the blood rushes to my face and my crotch.

"Oh nothing. Just wondering how I am going to get this cute blonde in my bed."

My face reddens a bit more and I cant tell if it is my inebriated state or his flattery.

"How funny. I was just thinking the same thing." I sit at his table as he leans closer.

"Well do you have any suggestions?" He is close enough for me to see the stuble on his chin. I wonder if it is itchy, I personally never been one to keep and manage any type of facial hair. I drunkly reach out to try to feel, but lose balance and slip. My hand drops in to the his lap before I could catch myself. He leans forward and grins large and wide.

"Well, thats forward. Why don-"

"HEY! SKWISGAAR" He is interrupted by my bandmates.


End file.
